The Khamsin Curse Read online

  Later that evening, when the doctor was strolling with the Countess through the jasmine-scented garden, and he recounted the heated discussion, something else occurred to him.

  “The other person who lied,” he said morosely, “was Mrs Baxter.” This disturbed him more than Mr Lee’s dissembling and that’s probably why it had taken longer to sink in. “During a tour of the paddle-steamer, Mr Lee ordered the steward to make sure to put the boxes of caftans out of sight so that his daughter wouldn’t see them, presumably so as not to spoil the surprise birthday. But Mrs Baxter told me she was going to buy the caftans less than two hours beforehand. She must have been lying because she must have already bought them earlier in the day. I think she was keen to rendezvous with Colonel Moran and wanted to give me the brush-off.”

  The Countess picked up on his aggrieved tone. “Or else she might have been quick with her purchase and the trader might have boxed them up immediately and had them delivered to the Sekhmet in record time because it was a lucrative sale.”

  He considered the suggestion in a favourable light because it was easier than thinking badly of a woman he was well-disposed to like. “No,” he said sadly. “There was an empty coffee cup on the table in front of her when Colonel Moran ordered a second cup for her which means she had been sitting there for a short while already. She wouldn’t have had time to get to the Wikala al-Qutn, buy the caftans, pay for them to be delivered to the Sekhmet and finish a cup of coffee before I stumbled across her in the maqha.”

  “Very well,” conceded the Countess, “but widows are often flattered by male attention even when those males are sixty years old, and remember the colonel has a reputation as a big game hunter. A lot of women might find that exciting. She may have agreed to meet Colonel Moran beforehand and, as you say, gave you the brush-off because she had no choice. It was either that or invite you to the maqha too. Is that what you would have preferred?”

  He got his back up. “Of course not!”

  A garden bench set back between a grove of white oleanders beckoned, so they decided to sit down and have a smoke. It was only half past eleven and they had another half an hour to kill before meeting up with Major Nash by the lion fountain.

  “What else happened today?” she put to him conversationally to take his mind off Mrs Baxter. “It sounds like you had an interesting afternoon.”

  She wasn’t expecting much except a description of the tobacco shop and a rundown of all the types of tobacco on offer in Cairo, so it came as a surprise to discover just how fruitful his afternoon had been. He recounted what he witnessed at the Citadel after she disappeared inside, and she quickly pulled herself upright as she puffed on an aromatic Egyptian cigarette that competed with the heady scent of the oleanders.

  “You think the meeting was pre-arranged?”

  “Yes, there was no salutation. It was as if they expected to meet. They both acted suspiciously, checking to make sure no one was looking.”

  “Did they see you?” A note of concern attached itself to the question.

  After a short deliberation, he shook his head. “No, it was a sharp angle between the corner of the building and through an arch. I was deep in shadow too.”

  “Are you sure the envelope had money in it?”

  “No, it’s only an assumption. The envelope was thick and it was the right size for bank notes and Colonel Hayter appeared to go all googly-eyed at the sight of the contents. And he admitted being hard-up for money.”

  “You think it was a bribe?”

  “I’ve been giving it a lot of thought and, yes, it had to be a pay-off for something. The German got a single piece of paper in return but he seemed very pleased with it.”

  “If only he were sailing with us to Aswan. We could have searched his possessions.”

  “I’m surprised Mycroft didn’t supply a photo of the German.”

  “I wonder if Major Nash knows Herr Graf?”

  “I don’t think their paths have ever crossed. When I met up with Major Nash on the Sekhmet and told him of the incident he didn’t mention knowing the German and yet he seemed to think the meeting was significant. He said we cannot trust anyone – meaning Colonel Hayter. It is a rum business if a respected British officer is selling military secrets to the enemy.”

  “It’s just as well you saw what you did otherwise we might have inadvertently revealed all to Colonel Hayter and messed up badly. Being a double agent explains his nervous disposition. You can keep an eye on him and I will watch Herr Graf. He’s planning to travel to Philae too. I think we will be sure to see him there.”

  “What about Miss Graf? Major Nash noted her linguistic proficiency – ‘handy in the spying game’ was his comment.”

  “I’ll keep an eye on her too. You befriend Mrs Baxter. It wouldn’t hurt for her to think you are a trifle smitten.”

  “I think I can manage that,” he said tongue-in-cheek. “She’s a redhead!”

  They both laughed and it eased the feeling of foreboding that seemed to be closing in from all sides like the gathering darkness full of cunning shadows. Massy leaves and exotic flowering plants took on the shape-shifting form of primitive gods who devoured the vulnerable and led them to the underworld – Sobek, Horus, Anubis; half-man, half-beast.

  The Countess shook off the feeling of being watched and forced herself to focus. “Behaving as if you are jealous will give you an excuse to watch her, especially if Colonel Moran is hanging about. The more desperate you look the more believable it will be.”

  He didn’t fancy making a fool of himself even if was for the war effort but he agreed it would offer the best cover. “I’m glad we have Major Nash as back-up if we need it but I wish he wasn’t on a separate mission. Which reminds me - I just remembered something else he said. He said that coincidental encounters can be contrived. Herr Graf may have contrived to be in Ali Pasha’s shop before we arrived.”

  “Mmm, yes, it’s possible he followed us through the bazaar and guessed where we were going when we got to the Bab al-Badistan gate and then rushed ahead of us.”

  He nodded. “And Ali Pasha may have contrived a reason to go to Philae. I can’t help thinking about that wonderful lunch. He invited us into his home and treated us to a feast and yet Mrs Baxter told me he made an inappropriate remark to her when she was alone with him in the shop. She was quite forceful with him though. I saw her through the open window standing up for herself the way you would. She slammed her hand on the counter and ticked him off. She’s not as retiring as she comes across.”

  “What did she pick up while she was in the shop?”

  “Two items – they were both wrapped up but one looked like a statuette and the other like a scroll.”

  They heard a noise behind them and turned sharply to find Major Nash wending his way through the fragrant oleander grove. Dr Watson moved along so the major could join them on the bench but the major declined.

  “Best if I stay standing,” he said. “It will look as if I have been taking a stroll and came across you by chance. If I sit down it will look as if the three if us are a bit too chummy.” He paused to light a cigarette even though he rarely smoked. “The Cambridge chap who went missing was found down the bottom of a disused well south-east of Cairo in the old city this afternoon. Whoever threw him down the well either thought he was dead – he’d been badly tortured – or that he would soon be dead. Soft mud down the bottom of the well broke his fall. Death was from dehydration. He’d been stung numerous times by scorpions prior to death. There were dozens of scorpions in the well. Rossiter was one of ours; checking into a racket in fake artifacts.”

  “One of ours?” echoed the doctor, swallowing dry in an effort to moisten his larynx and not sound hoarse. “You mean a secret agent from the Foreign Office?”

  “Yes, that’s what I mean.” The major put one foot onto the bench and rested his elbow on his knee; the casual stance belied the tenseness in his tone.

  “But why torture him over fake artifacts?” quiz
zed the Countess. “That sort of thing goes on all the time and why does our government suddenly care?”

  Major Nash turned his head and blew a plume of smoke into the air; a deft scan of the perfumed garden’s shadowy ghosts was masked by the casual nature of the action. “Before he died, Rossiter managed to scratch a message on the wall of the well. Coded information is going to the Boers via hieroglyphs on fake artifacts. Two items have been intercepted. The stone for a fake stele came from Philae and a fake papyrus can be traced to a workshop at Luxor.”

  They heard voices. Two people were coming down the gravel path. It was Herr Graf and his niece. Major Nash tossed his cigarette into the oleander grove, smoothed back his blond hair and straightened up.

  “Good evening,” said Herr Graf amiably, looking carefully from one to the other of the trio as he adjusted his pince-nez. “A pleasant evening for a stroll in the garden, is it not?”

  Everyone agreed it was, and following introductions the conversation drifted from ancient wonders to new ones. Miss Ursula Graf stifled a yawn and her uncle suggested she need not stay up to keep him company for they had an early start the next day and he planned to have a drink at the bar before turning in.

  Mr Gideon Longshanks had a sudden urge to try his luck at the in-house casino and offered to accompany the young lady back through the garden. Before he had a chance to work his charm on the young fraulein, they came across Miss Hypatia Lee puffing furiously on a cigarette while pacing around the lion fountain. She appeared edgy and of a temper; the crunch of gravel had her spinning round sharply.

  “Finally! I’ve been…Oh, it’s you…Mr Longshanks and Miss, er, Miss Graf, isn’t it?”

  “Yes,” replied the fraulein. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Miss Lee. I have heard all about your Philae project from my uncle, Mr Jurgen Graf. It is my dearest wish to visit Philae while I am in Egypt and perhaps do some research there.”

  Miss Lee stubbed out her cigarette using the sole of a gold sandal. “It will be an honour to have the daughter of Rhinehart Graf visit Philae. I look forward to seeing you there and exchanging ideas. I plan to stay for twelve months, though my father is rather keen for it to be less. He is returning to Texas at the end of the month. Quite frankly, I cannot wait. He is a dear old thing but he treats me as if I were twelve years old. Oh, you will need to organize a permit from the office of the British High Commissioner – some silly rule about foreigners working on archaeological sites. I had to get one too. You should do that before you leave Cairo.”

  Miss Lee spoke quickly, nervily, and looked anxiously past their shoulders into the unperceived shadows as if expecting someone. Only at the end did she make eye-contact and remember to smile. Hastily, she lit up another cigarette and they left her to it.

  “Will you have time to organize a permit before you leave Cairo?” asked Mr Longshanks when they were out of earshot. “These things can sometimes take weeks to approve.”

  “It’s all taken care of. My uncle has been to Egypt many times. He is familiar with the tiresome rules and regulations since the British takeover.”

  “Your father was an Egyptologist?”

  “Yes.”

  “You hope to follow in his footsteps?”

  “Yes.”

  Major Nash was desperate to find out more about the fair-haired fraulein and her deceased father but her responses were deliberately blunt and any further probing might have appeared suspicious. Instinct told him to let the matter drop.

  When they rounded a bend in the path, just before reaching the steps leading to the hotel terrace, he noticed the red glow from a cigarette behind some lush foliage. Someone was hanging back, someone who didn’t want to be seen. Major Nash wondered if it was the person Miss Lee was waiting for. He was hoping to bid Miss Graf goodnight and double back through the vegetation but Mr Jefferson Lee was smoking a cigar on the terrace and the fire-eater’s cracker-jack eye didn’t miss a trick.

  Miss Graf managed to slink off but Mr Gideon Longshanks was trapped.

  “Join me in a glass of bourbon,” encouraged the nasally Texan. “I hate to drink alone. You can tell me about Mr Cassel. Is the Jew as rich as they say?”

  Herr Graf appeared in the doorway of the bar a few moments later and was invited to join them.

  “The more the merrier!” laughed the cattle king, signalling with a click of his fingers for a third glass to be brought to the table. “Well, how rich is the Jew of England?”

  Gideon Longshanks played his cards close to his chest. He claimed never to have met Mr Cassel. He had been hired by Mr Cassel’s legal advisor. His remit was simply to look into the construction of the dam and make sure all was proceeding according to schedule. As he spoke he made sure not to glance at the three British engineers seated at a table in the corner nursing glasses of whiskey and speaking in undertones, and instead, out of the corner of his eye, he spotted Dr Watson passing alone through the foyer.

  “Excuse me for a moment,” he said as his heart leapt into his throat and he pushed urgently to his feet in an effort to catch up to the doctor. He latched onto him where the stairs turned at the first landing. He had practically sprinted across the foyer. “You didn’t leave the Countess alone in the garden, did you?”

  Dr Watson was taken by surprise by the blunt tone but recovered quickly. “No, no, of course not. She’s with Mallisham. To be frank, I find the man’s conceit hard to take. I left her with him and opted for an early night.”

  Major Nash looked relieved; he lowered his pitch. “I don’t need to tell you things are turning dirty. Rossiter’s torture has upped the ante. You wouldn’t mind proceeding on your own to Philae, would you? I’m going to put the Countess on the first train leaving Cairo tomorrow morning.”

  Dr Watson managed to keep a straight face. “Good luck with that plan, Mr Longshanks, and goodnight to you.”

  The swimming pool in the perfumed garden was like a giant mirror-moon reflecting the astrological vault of heaven. Professor Mallisham and the Countess were walking side by side along the dark edge of the glassy pond dimpled with quicksilver stars, drunk on the scent of jasmine and oleander when a predatory figure cut a blistering swathe though the foliated darkness in the direction of the lion fountain, momentarily breaking the serenity.

  “What can you tell me about Rhinehart Graf?” posed the Countess, eager to discover all she could while she had the professor to herself. “I spent a pleasant afternoon with Miss Ursula Graf and there seemed to be a shadow hanging over her. I vaguely recall some sort of scandal attached to the death of her father – is that correct?”

  “Yes, it happened about ten years ago. I was working in Edfu at the time. Rhinehart had just published his book on the Heliopolis papyrus and was basking in academic glory when it came to light that a number of artifacts he had purchased for several German museums were fakes. It was never established whether he knew they were fake and tried to pass them off as the real thing or whether he had been fooled into buying them. Either way, his reputation was destroyed. There was no coming back from such a scandal. He took his own life. I believe the daughter went to live with the older brother – Jurgen Graf. He was also an archaeologist but inferior to Rhinehart. I’ve seen Jurgen hanging around various sites over the years. He buys artifacts for private European clients who have money to burn and don’t ask any questions.”

  “Well, Egyptology is very popular among the aristocracy. Everyone desires to have an Egyptian room and some treasures to show off to one’s friends.” She was paraphrasing the German to see what the professor might make of it.

  “Indeed, but Jurgen wouldn’t know a bas relief from a mud brick.”

  A visit to the souk, the Citadel, a few mosques; a couple of glasses of Pimms; a moonlit stroll through a perfumed garden, and some luxurious cotton sheets, all conspired to induce the Countess to dream deeply. A cool cross-current of air blew through the open doors leading to the balcony. Gauzy curtains danced in the breeze.

  A dark figure crept
across the chamber toward her bed. The first inkling she had that she was not alone was when a huge hot hand clamped her mouth. Charged with shock, her sleepy brain struggled to separate cause from effect and action from intent in that moment between unconscious existence and conscious inexistence.

  “Don’t scream.”

  Scream?

  The guttural threat, full of foreboding, filled her with the sort of primitive terror that vexes the senses so that body and soul cannot distinguish friend from foe. Seized with primal terror, she struggled to breathe let alone scream. A tattoo of drumbeats inside her head banged out a dreadful death-march that was so deafening she could barely hear herself think.

  The Countess had often read such things in books but she had never believed them. The characters were simpering virgins! The plots were contrived! The situations implausible! The inaction incredulous!

  Until now.

  “I’m going to remove my hand. You’re safe. I’m not going to hurt you. We need to talk. I didn’t finish what I wanted to say when we were interrupted by Herr Graf in the garden.”

  The moment her assailant removed his hand a ferocious revival of strength and sanity shuddered to life and she sucked back a deep breath like someone on the point of drowning. “Major Nash! How dare - !”

  His hand clamped down hard a second time. “Shut-up! There’s a man out in the corridor. He’s been there for over an hour. I had to come through the balcony. I’m sorry to wake you like that. I’m sorry to give you a fright. There was no alternative. Tomorrow morning will be too late. Nod if you understand what I’m saying.”

  Slowly, she nodded and he removed his hand.

  “Take a few quick short breaths,” he directed with an empathetic pitch; using his eyes to graph the dimensions of the room, noting the doors and windows. “Where’s your maid?”